


The Pale Loiterer

by Bardwich



Category: Drumfred - Fandom, Victoria (TV)
Genre: Florence discovers feminism and it's all good and everyone lives, M/M, also period accurate pop culture references essentially, lots of cute pining, this is wholesome stuff for when you're having a bad day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bardwich/pseuds/Bardwich
Summary: Drummond is left injured by the bullet he takes for Sir Robert. The attack is like a cold shower and he decides to marry Florence after all and to put some distance between him and Alfred. But of course they can't forget each other. Overcome by the need to express his unfading love for Alfred, Drummond soon discovers poetry and posts his pieces under a pseudonym in the hopes that Alfred will read them. Meanwhile, the mysterious poet only known as The Pale Loiterer is stirring quite a talk. Will Alfred realise he is the poet's muse? And will they find not only their way back to each other but also fulfilment and a way to be together against the odds?





	The Pale Loiterer

**Author's Note:**

> The original idea for this fic came from an anguished Tumblr post about numerous more creative ways to take Drummond's storyline other than killing him off: https://svn-qveen.tumblr.com/post/173262175744/animateglee-svn-qveen-animateglee
> 
> I would like to thank Sarah, aka svn-qveen, who had the stroke of brilliance and suggested a storyline in which Drummond becomes a writer. I was intrigued because I had not entertained the idea of them actually deciding to put a distance between themselves - of course, all we want is the opposite of that, now that we can do whatever we want in fanfics - but it seemed absolutely fascinating for this pitch.
> 
> As for others, I would like to thank you for your attention and if you are as done with unoriginal plotlines for LGBTQIA+ characters as I am, I hope you will find this a good read.

It had been hours since the Duchess of Buccleuch handed Alfred the note about Drummond’s being shot in front of the House.

By the evening, he still hadn’t shown any signs of waking up.

And now, the doctor, the nurse, Drummond’s parents, one of his brothers who was in London at the time, Sir Robert Peel, Florence Villiers, and the Marquess of Lothian were discussing Drummond’s fate over his head.

Just as they had when it came to the marriage, really.

It was only fitting they should do the same without a second thought when it came to his physical health, more specifically, on how to treat his bullet wound best. Suggestions were thrown around, from the uplifting idea of fresh air and lots of laudanum to the more gruesome ones, such as experimental surgery and bloodletting.

Through their crowd, Lord Alfred, who was the only one not speaking, only had eyes for his love lying bandaged and pale in the four-poster bed, unable to participate in the tug-of-war over what was to happen to Drummond. Drummond, whom he had grown to love more than himself, who only days before had taken the courage to kiss him by that picturesque lake, who was so naively and recklessly willing to break off his engagement that he would not even listen to Alfred’s suggestion that he think it over before he did anything he would regret, Drummond with whom he had parted the opposite of amicably, Drummond to whom Alfred longed to apologise but might never be able to now, Drummond…

… who was coming to.

‘By God. Gentlemen, ladies, I believe Drummond is awake,’ he said faintly, putting an end to the fruitless noise over the sickbed.

‘By God!’ said Sir Robert, equally aghast. ‘So he is!’

As soon as Drummond’s vision cleared and he became aware of where he was, he found Alfred and locked eyes with him, a look that said a thousand words that went right over the others’ heads.

The next second, Mr Drummond was crowded by the people, the doctor and the nurse prodding at him, asking him questions, and did it hurt, and how did he feel, and do not move, and do not speak, and his lungs may be affected, and we were so worried, they were all so, so worried, and in the midst of all that noise Drummond’s raspy voice broke through clearly and commandingly despite his weakness:

‘Lord Alfred,’ he said between soft coughs. ‘I wish to speak to Lord Alfred. Alone.’

‘But Edward, surely, you are quite unwell, you should let the doctor…’ his mother immediately started but Drummond paid no attention to anyone but the tall blond man at the foot of his bed.

‘Alfred. Alone. Now.’

He was so final and dangerous in his uncharacteristic demanding tone that there was nothing to do but obey the patient. Alfred knew he should have made up some reason for this wish of Drummond’s but he didn’t care enough to make the effort. Albeit not without some confused and perhaps suspicious and even jealous expressions, they left one by one, leaving Alfred alone with Drummond, and free to walk over to his side, sit, take his hand, and kiss it.

He had never done that - didn’t know why he thought to do it now, only that it was a right heavenly blessing to feel the warmth of Drummond’s hand against his lips, to sense the beating in his veins on his wrist, to feel his fingers entwine with his own as he looked up in those warm brown eyes that so often appeared his sweetest dreams.

‘Alfred—’ Drummond began with great effort. He was wheezing so and the sheen of sweat on his skin gave away his fever.

‘Don’t speak,’ Alfred said gently, brushing a strand of hair from Drummond’s eyes.

‘Alfred,’ Drummond insisted. He had difficulty breathing but not so much that he couldn’t say what he needed to say. Every word was an effort, he was obviously in immense pain, but he persisted. ‘I got your note,’ he inhaled with difficulty, ‘I would have shown up,’ another difficult breath, ‘I was on my way. I want you to know that.’

‘Edward…’

‘Listen to me, Alfred… Whatever happens now… if this is it…’

Alfred was squeezing Drummond’s hand stronger than he realised. ‘No, Edward, don’t say that…’

‘If this is it, Alfred,’ Drummond persisted, ‘whether it be because of the bullet or because of… the marriage,’ and here Alfred felt an invisible bullet shoot through his own chest as he realised Drummond was convinced to go through with the wedding after all, probably thanks to Alfred’s stupid encouragement,  ‘I want you to know… that I have never and will never… love anyone like I love you in this moment.’

Overwhelmed, Alfred collapsed on Drummond’s shoulder at hearing these words, careful not to add pain to his injury, and before he knew it, damn the risk of the doctor or Drummond’s family walking in on them any second, he found Drummond’s lips and kissed him. They kissed until Drummond couldn’t hold his coughing anymore.

As they parted, Drummond’s gaze was drawn from the blue of Alfred’s eyes to the red on his lips. His expression was troubled, something was amiss. Alfred raised his fingers to his own mouth and saw blood. Being the Chief Equerry and having guarded the Queen even and especially when she was being attacked, his nerves were practiced to withstand what others would faint from in shock but because it was the man he loved it was all he could do not to run and shout and scream and weep in panic. Instead, he wiped his mouth calmly with his handkerchief and called for the doctor.

The next few days were torture.

Drummond was going in and out of consciousness. His fever was coming and going. He looked so perfect but his wound was deep and there was only so much any doctor or surgeon could have done. Everyone kept parroting the doctor, be thankful it missed his heart…

The most agonising thing was that Alfred was one of the last ones to receive news. He spent his days unable to perform his duties as promptly as he was expected to, and his nights sleepless and in cold sweats, thinking, always thinking the most horrible things, that Edward might have died hours and hours ago, while Alfred had been quite unaware of this. He had an assumption that he would sense the worst if it had happened, that they were so connected by their bond of love that he would feel it even in his absence. But this way, as September arrived, every cold breeze through the Palace worried him that _this_ was a shiver of a different kind, or _this_ , or surely _this_ , oh, he felt his grave walked over in every doorway, there were ghosts in every draughty room!

So it was with such great relief when Alfred received a hand-written letter from Drummond himself, telling him he had got over the critical parts and was much better now, and though his recovery would last some more time, the doctors could confirm he would live, if not entirely the same life as before.

Alfred had to go and see him.

When he did, he was glad to see that Drummond was recovering well. Slowly but surely, he would rebuild his health. This was not his time yet. Alfred could have cried for joy!

Of course, it would have been quite inappropriate to do so in front of Lady Florence Villiers, who never seemed to leave her fiancé’s side. Not that she was unpleasant company, only, one could have done with at least a few moments with the man he was in love with without the surveillance of that man’s soon-to-be wife.

When Drummond finally asked her to give them a few minutes to talk privately, it was to discuss apologies. No, not from Alfred – Drummond stopped him and saw fit to apologise to Alfred for having behaved so irrationally and having almost jumped into what would have been almost certain ruin that would have been the aftermath of a broken engagement just a month before the date. Though they agreed what they had shared was not at all a mere indiscretion, the attack was a cold shower, a reminder that the world was cruel and that that would not change anytime soon.

What Drummond needed now more than ever was safety, security, and stability. Alfred agreed he could give him many wonderful things, most importantly love, but he could not give him those. And even if a part of him despised her on principle, even Alfred could see that Lady Florence was devoted to Drummond and that they would make a well-suited couple. (“Absolutely perfect!” Alfred could be found confirming a little too emphatically whenever the Duchess was twisting his arm to comment on the match.) For the first time, through his jealousy, he also realised she had known Drummond for much, much longer, and though Drummond had confirmed to Alfred that he would never be able to love Florence properly, Alfred willed himself to take a step back for his sake.

Not that it was easy.

In fact, Alfred was sick for three days after the wedding. He told his servants it was the amount of alcohol but he knew it was something more gripping than that, something that had to do with the pains in his chest that seemed to renew every time a knowing and almost suggestive smirk appeared on Harriet’s face when the match was mentioned, every time Her Majesty asked about the heroic Mr _and_ Mrs Drummond as if Alfred had happily kept tabs on their movements on the Continent, every time the Duchess asked his opinion on the newlyweds loudly and pointedly across the music room, every morning he received a letter from Drummond and every morning he didn’t.

He overworked himself so much that Her Majesty had to outright order him to take a sabbatical. He fled to the family home in Wales in an attempt to forget but that would prove impossible.

Meanwhile, Drummond was enjoying his honeymoon with Florence in Italy. Well, _enjoying_ is a strong word – he was still recovering from his attack. This prevented him from many activities Florence had planned for them and they saw quite a lot less from the sights, which was a shame. However, this also spared him the task of performing certain duties as a husband, physically speaking... The strain that simply walking up a flight of stairs put on his damaged lung indicated that he was far from fully healthy, if he ever would be again, which only time would tell. And Florence was happy to wait.

In fact, if he had been doubtful about Florence before, these few weeks showed her goodness and evaporated any malicious gossip that she only married him for his wealth (which she herself had more than enough of) or other unwholesome reasons. She never wavered in her devotion to Edward as any true companion was expected to.

Drummond kept this even from Alfred but he had offered her an exit before the wedding, given their changed circumstances due to his condition, but she refused to let him go after a brief conversation and seemed more than happy to tend to his every need as the dutiful wife she aimed to be. She seemed different now, too: calmer, more comfortable in her skin, and, as she let slip in some of their more private conversations, freer without the pressures and scrutiny of her sometimes tyrannical parents.

Tyrannical was one word for Lothian. Drummond could testify to that truth, reminding himself about his father-in-law’s explicit threats on the next bullet that might have hit Drummond more accurately if he had dared to postpone the wedding again, or so Lothian ominously suggested.

He wondered whether Lothian was the main reason why Florence insisted on keeping the date despite the injury and everything that came with it. Drummond wasn’t the only one bound by the shackles of Society, it seemed. And they could understand each other well, and he meant to ensure a good life for her regardless of his shortcomings romantically.

Or perhaps especially to balance the guilt of all that.

Actually, her relentless goodness only added to Drummond’s troubles, really. Besides the physical wound, this weighed down on his shoulders, among other troubles: the regret over Alfred, the cripplingly great deal he missed him, and therefore the guilt about it since he knew he could never feel a fraction of that for Florence, no matter how sweet and lovely and pretty and intelligent and devoted she was.

Though he wanted nothing more than to see Alfred again, to embrace him, to kiss him, to hear his voice again, Drummond thought it better to extend their honeymoon instead. The truth was, he was madly in love with Alfred, and he knew Alfred felt similarly about him, which surely could have led to nothing good as far as he supposed once he regained his right mind. The distance, though torturous, had to be useful. They had to forget their dalliances, they had to give it up, for the sake of all of their futures. Drummond had always been a man of reason and rationale. Alfred’s presence in his life had been wonderful, joyous, too splendid for words, but it had also made Drummond reckless, emotional, and lose his senses. Now _that_ , that was dangerous and it terrified him so. Look where he ended up, losing sight of the real matters such as the vote, too elated by the thought of seeing Alfred to suspect that the brouhaha outside the House of Commons could result in violence!

Therefore, the solution was to bite the bullet, as hard-hitting the phrase was, and allow them both the space and time to return to their sane minds and get on with their lives and careers as it was always planned for them respectively.

Speaking of careers… Drummond was almost as troubled by this subject as by the taste and feel of Alfred’s lips haunting his dreams even as he lay beside his wife at night. The fact was, as it became apparent by the end of their prolonged vacationing, he could no longer shout as loudly and as persistently as before. He could no longer rush from Whitehall to the Palace and back twice or thrice a day. He could no longer accompany his superiors on every public appearance, exposed to sometimes angered crowds. He could no longer lobby on behalf of the Prime Minister since it so often involved riding in the park or smoking in clubs as a gateway to winning over MPs. He did write political articles and researched for his politician friends and former colleagues but that was all he could offer at the moment, which he felt was not at all enough.

He did keep his tinderbox on him wherever he went – an eccentric habit as he explained when Florence asked – even if there was no use to it anymore, what with him no longer smoking with only one good lung left and no Alfred being there to light up as a pretext to stand closer than usual and chat about sweet nothings that were loaded with hidden meanings like they used to…

These were the kind of thoughts where Drummond found his mind wandering even months later. Sitting in an armchair by the fire in the study of his London house after another unproductive day as the first snow fell on London made that midsummer night in Scotland seem like a dream, a scene out of someone else’s life, that of a man much, much luckier than him.

‘Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?’ Florence’s voice woke him from his daydreams. She came to sit on the armrest and kissed him on the forehead.

‘I-I was just…’ Drummond stuttered. He still hadn’t got used to their marital privacy and intimacy. Especially not when his mind had been miles and miles away, lost in two brilliant blue eyes somewhere in a memory that wouldn’t seem to want to accept being pushed to the back of his mind.

‘Just being all melancholic again?’ Florence supplied, somewhat amused. ‘I know you. Sir Robert resigned, you haven’t been able to return to your secretarial position… The attempt to row yesterday was not as great in practice as in theory… It’s been quite a change. But you mustn’t let it distress you so. In fact, that’s why I came in here. Look what we’ve got in the evening post!’ she said and handed Drummond a letter of invitation.

To the Christmas ball at Buckingham Palace. Where Alfred was sure to make an appearance.

‘Oh, I… I’m not sure….’ he started but Florence was clearly not party to that.

‘Edward, really. You cannot be a recluse all your life! It’s only a ball! You used to love balls, didn’t you?’

‘I did. I do. Only…’ _Only I am not sure I am ready to see the man I’m still head over heels in love with without melting into a puddle. Plus, I haven’t been able to exercise as I used to, maybe he doesn’t even fancy me anymore for that. And my hair needs a good cut._

‘Only what?’

Damn, he needed to find another excuse, and quickly. ‘Only… Ah, I worry I will not be able to dance with you. I get so out of breath, as you know.’

‘Then we will not dance. Or, we will try half a slow Waltz and see how it goes. Or, you’ll just have to cope with me filing my dance card with other gentlemen’s names. I’m afraid I’ve already given instructions to my tailor for the frock I want made so you really have no choice in the matter, darling,’ Florence said with relentless cheerfulness and cheek and Drummond had to smile. ‘And hasn’t it been ages since you’ve seen Lord Alfred? You used to be such friends, you used to talk about him all the time!’

‘Did I?’ Drummond said very transparently.

‘You know you did,’ Florence said, not one to be fooled. ‘You didn’t have a… disagreement, did you?’

‘Pardon? No, not at all!’

‘Good. Then he will be most pleased to see you at the ball! That’s decided then!’ Florence rejoiced.

‘Alright. I see I am completely disenfranchised. In my own home!’

‘That, you are!’ Florence quipped happily and stood from the armchair. She really was lovely and Drummond was still truly incapable of feeling anything more than friendship for her. Sometimes he almost wished he would but it was just not in his nature. He was glad she wasn’t actually as frivolous as she tried to pretend before their wedding – she was actually very intelligent and educated, which made their days quite easy to get on with (even if their nights were not as easy, what with the increasingly awkward lack of anything of mention that neither of them seemed to want to bring up).

‘Perhaps I should put a word in about that in the next issue of the Times,’ Drummond suggested, knowing Florence followed women’s politics with enthusiasm. ‘I suppose women’s rights have to start somewhere, even if it is forcing men to attend balls.’

Florence laughed sweetly. ‘Why, thank you. I believe you could run for the leadership of your party one day with that on your agenda. In the meantime,’ she continued, gathering some books from the many bookshelves, ‘why don’t you read up on some other ways women are becoming empowered already?’

‘Such as?’ he asked and he was presented with a stack of books that landed heavily on his desk, generating a cloud of dust.

‘Literature, of course!’

And so it was that Drummond’s eyes were opened to a whole new world of writings that he had not really cared for beforehand: Jane Austen, the Brontë Sisters… Then, as he found his mind was at least occupied by something other than his own pining for Alfred while he read, he moved onto the wider world of popular fiction: he finally had the spare time to read all things by the increasingly popular Charles Dickens (rather than re-re-re-reading the _Iliad_ just because it reminded him of Alfred), after which he developed a taste for poetry and soon discovered Shakespeare’s sonnets, John Donne, then naturally Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake… There was such passion in their poems, such sensitivity that Drummond had never understood before his eyes were opened to love! He had never been able to appreciate these works but now he was able to quote his favourite poems by heart!

It was funny, he had always been a man of words. His whole life had been spent reading and writing and reading and writing… In fact, while his peers at university did all they could to get away from the libraries in favour of pursuing girls they fancied, Drummond prided himself on wanting to do nothing more than to lock himself in his sleeping quarters with a stack of political philosophy books. At the time, he supposed he was simply more studious, driven, and academic than his fellows. Now that he knew himself better, he knew he had not been interested in chasing women because he would only ever care for men, one man exactly, whose name was Lord Alfred Henry Paget and whom he would surely see again very soon.

Very, very soon.

After a break, they did get into the habit of exchanging letters, of course. With moderation. And necessary formality. Not that they didn’t occasionally slip and allude to less formal moments of their shared history… And the signature “Your affectionate friend” was never missing from any of their messages, for whatever it was worth… However, agonisingly, Drummond had no way of conveying his true feelings for Alfred on a piece of paper that could get into the wrong hands so easily! Since they agreed it would be for the best not to purposefully meet if they could avoid it, he often wished he had a way to express to Alfred in writing how much he missed him, how much his thoughts were still occupied by thoughts of him, how he longed to be with him, after all this time!

“ _O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?_ ” he heard Alfred’s sweet, sweet voice in his head as clear as if it had been yesterday as he was going through a Keats volume.

And then, something occurred to him… words that were not ones of another mind… but they expressed his deepest feelings more perfectly than anything he had read…

And so it was that that night was the first when Drummond grabbed his favourite pen and wrote something completely different from anything before: it was not a political article, not a dissertation, not a letter, nor notes from a Cabinet meeting.

It was a poem of his own.

He debated whether to do it or not for three whole days. But he had the perfect connection to an editor of a paper he was certain Alfred read habitually.

In the end he just thrust the sealed envelope into his footman’s hand, containing the poem and a faked letter of recommendation from a former professor of his whose handwriting was easy to forge, and quickly disappeared from said footman’s presence before he could change his mind and tear the letter out of his hand and throw it on the fire. Not that he wasn’t kept awake that night from thoughts of doubt.

Too late now.

He could not even be sure the poem would be published at all. Was it too obvious? Would anyone be able to guess? It was probably rubbish anyway, even with the faux recommendation.

However, about a week later, Lord Alfred let his tea go cold because he was so lost in reading one of his usual papers with an unusual submission. The title caught his attention at once:

“Midsummer Evening”

Lord Alfred had always been an avid reader of poems and he could normally tell who the poet was just from the first three lines – but not this time! As he progressed, he knew instantly he was reading something new. It was quite a beautiful piece (and in places oddly specific to some of his most cherished memories… what a coincidence!). It was short and simple but it touched Alfred just where he was the most vulnerable. He read it thrice over in wonder before noticing something odd below the verses:

_“By: The Pale Loiterer”_

‘…What do you think, Lord Alfred?’ Miss Coke had to clear her throat and repeat: ‘Lord Alfred?’

‘Oh, err…’ Alfred jumped a little and looked up to find the whole breakfast table looking expectantly at him. It was obvious he had not been paying attention. ‘I’m sorry, I was…’

‘Miles away, apparently,’ Her Majesty remarked with a laugh.

‘I do apologise, Ma’am.’

‘We were only wondering whether you would like to accompany us to the Turner exhibition at the Academy,’ Miss Coke repeated somewhat embarrassedly and Alfred had to say yes to remedy that.

Turner was brilliant but going out of fashion and though Alfred complimented the exhibition with all the good manners and joviality he tended to display, his mind still wondered to those few minutes where, despite the biting cold outside the Palace windows, he was transported back to a summer’s day in spirit because of that poetry column. If he hadn’t known Drummond’s writing style he would have thought… No, that’s silly. _Edw_ —that is _Drummond_ wrote elegantly but practically, and in a usually academic and formal manner, and he never much cared madly for songs, certainly nothing as personal and sensitive as this poem was. No, the former Private Secretary’s heart raced from a neatly documented debate or the perfect final phrasing of a tediously lengthy legal paragraph.

Nevertheless, he would mention it as an innocent recommendation to Drummond in his next letter.

And Drummond knew from that that his arrow had hit its target!

The writer only known by his curious pseudonym began to pop up every couple of days in Alfred’s favoured paper, and another weekly literature magazine picked him up, too. It was after this that more people began to take notice as well.

‘…most unfit for this publication!’ Alfred heard the Duchess already ranting about something or other as he entered the music room one evening. ‘Such images are entirely inappropriate in the morning.’

‘So would you suggest they appear in the evening copies, Duchess?’ Ernst replied nonchalantly, shooting a look towards Harriet, who blushed and willed herself not to have any obvious reaction to the way he was looking at her.

‘I would suggest not appearing anywhere at all!’ the Duchess complained on.

‘What’s this about, may I ask?’ Alfred asked, joining the party.

‘Have you read the latest issue of _New Poetry_?’ Harriet asked.

‘Have I!’ Alfred caught on instantly and revealed the copy that he had been keeping in his pocket all day.

‘Those anonymous pieces are stirring quite a talk!’

‘Are they?’

‘I’m just coming from tea at Mrs Fairbanks and all my friends were familiar with them. Don’t you think they are rather peculiar?’

‘That’s not the word I’d use. I think the pieces are quite good.’

‘ _Quite good_? Is that all you can say? What about the one that mentions a wish to visit a boathouse?’ she asked suggestively and Alfred gaped and blushed just as quickly as she had under Ernst’s stare just before.

‘Enough of this talk!’ the Duchess of Buccleuch interrupted their foolish giggling and scolded them some more as if she was a schoolteacher ready to make them kneel on dry corn.

But Harriet had a point.

In fact, her popularity meaning she was always the first to hear about the newest topics in town, she was completely correct: by December, one was hard pressed to find a literary conversation that failed to touch upon the mystery poet – their identity, their whereabouts, their motivations for staying anonymous...

People were excited about the Pale Loiterer as a sort of trend. Not to say there were no naysayers. Some criticised their occasional clumsiness, which could simply mean the author was new and there was nothing sinful about that, in Alfred’s opinion. Some had qualms about the rawness of some parts, lamenting that they were not sophisticated and refined enough for _their_ taste. Oh, _their taste_ , surely that was the be-all-end-all of literature… well, they were for Alfred’s taste. There was something about the choice of phrases that he found familiar and relatable. They made him rather nostalgic, as a matter of fact. Not as masterful as Keats, of course, from whom the writer borrowed his cover name, but this person had a talent, for there was real, tangible substance behind their words.

Another objection that Alfred could not dispute, however, was that the poems were indeed becoming increasingly…

‘Scandalous! Wanting! Completely shocking in a respectable magazine as this!’ as the Duchess of Buccleuch put it, after spotting Alfred reading a new copy of his magazine that had a new one, titled “Swimming”.

And to be fair, he did feel a bit uncomfortable reading that one in public and had a feeling he would do better to resume his reading in the privacy of his own room, later that night, evoking memories of a certain day in France…

Well, if he could not get his thirst for passion quenched in reality by the man he had loved for years but had to keep away from, he enjoyed it second-hand from this person, whoever he was (“Or she!” as Her Majesty once piped up) and whomever they were addressed to.

But for Heaven’s sake, it was… it was so perfectly descriptive of what he felt about Drummond! Of course he could not say so in a letter, both to avoid the risk of someone reading it and to keep himself to their torturous pact of chastity.

He wondered how Drummond was coping with all this. He imagined a lot better than he himself was. In fact, he feared Drummond might be actually getting over his feelings for him, as was the purpose of their keeping a distance, and this filled his heart with increasing worry. He supposed that was why he clang to the Pale Loiterer’s poems: he found a welcome distraction from his fears in them.

‘Who do you think it could be?’ he caught talk even at the Christmas Ball and knew instantly some lady hoped to seem up-to-date with society’s newest, freshest topics of conversation by bringing up the unknown poet. After the usual talk of the splendour of the evening was starting to wear off, this was an obvious subject to jump into for groups of attendees all around him. ‘I heard even the publishers don’t know!’

‘I don’t think we should be discussing it here, Gwendolyn… I heard there might be a lawsuit for obscenity!’

‘Well, it wouldn’t exactly be unfounded… That last one that details how the person in the poem wrapped their lips around a cigar and inhaled, comparing it to…’

‘Shhh!!!’

Alfred was glad to be standing and listening to this with Harriet because they ended up smirking and giggling like schoolchildren again.

But Alfred’s smile faltered as he spotted a new couple walking through the doors.

His world dimmed, the noise dulled, and everything else seemed to disappear as he watched Edward Drummond walk in. His elegant height, his stylish brown curls, his beautifully sculpted face ( _and body_ , hidden by fashionable clothes, the back of Alfred’s mind remarked) were as delightful as ever to behold.

He forgot to breathe at the sight of him.

Suddenly, he had the urge to run up to him at once AND to run the opposite direction, to hide, because it was still too much.

_Edward was here!_ Of course, his wife was right beside him, and Alfred could not help the tinge of jealousy shoot through himself. It was maddening to think that that person had the privilege to share her life, her home, her bed with Drummond. Oh, he didn’t even want to think about that, the image was too impossible to cope with! He wondered how Drummond was handling all of that but he didn’t want to waste the little correspondence they allowed themselves on talking about her.

Harriet’s gaze followed. ‘Oh, I didn’t know they were invited, did you?’ she asked, sensing only his surprise but not the rest.

‘N-no… I did not!’ Alfred replied somewhat breathlessly.

‘Oh, must be the surprise Her Majesty mentioned!’

‘Yes… must… must be…’

And just before he could make up his mind and actually hide, the crowd dispersed between them and Drummond spotted him in return. Their eyes met, and it was too late to run for it. Not that Alfred wanted to anymore. What he wanted was to grab the nearest silver spoon and check that his hair was still in the right place even though he had left the mirror in his room perfectly satisfied not half an hour ago.

Would Drummond be angry if he broke their pact and went up to him to welcome them? Alfred thought about his letters, which he had re-read so many times he could quote them by heart:

_“I wish I could talk to you in person but I know it is for the best…”_

_“Do you remember the balcony? Seems every other opportunity for conversation was interrupted by Miss Coke. But there, we could talk undisturbed. Such heavenly moments.”_

_“Hoping to see you soon, Your devoted and affectionate friend, Edward”_

… Surely, there was no harm in saying hello.

‘Drummond,’ Alfred nodded politely, once he and Harriet reached them. There was nothing odd about the way they all greeted one another, he, Edward, Florence and Harriet. Nothing odd… or perhaps Alfred’s throat drying so very quickly from the heady reality of standing not two feet away from the man he loved.

But oh, he was perfect.

Champagne! Champagne was suggested. Thank God for Harriet, Alfred thought. At least he could have something to do with his hands while stealing glances from Drummond, who seemed to steal them right back, barely able to suppress his smiles. All that resulted in was the dimples showing on his handsome face that Alfred was always so delighted by. He bit his lip and shook his head and suddenly seemed set on counting the bubbles in his drink while the women talked.

‘Don’t tell me you’re talking about him again!’ Prince Ernst said, joining them, along with Miss Coke, invigorated from the opening dance. ‘The Pale Loiterer – I believe I am the last person who is unaffected by this poet.’

‘Why, people love a mystery. And he possesses a rare passion. Don’t you think it’s worthwhile to express it if one has a talent?’ Harriet asked.

‘I prefer to express my passion in other ways,’ he replied meaningfully without missing a beat and Harriet’s voice seemed to have flown out the window.

Miss Coke broke a spot of awkward lull in the conversation. ‘I think it’s romantic!’

‘I quite agree,’ Florence seconded her friend. ‘The world can never have enough love songs!’

‘Y-you’ve read them too?’ Drummond asked surprised at his wife. He had been listening to yet another conversation trying not to give himself away. Since he was rarely among people due to his recovery, he had been good at avoiding this but even he became aware of having started something he was not quite ready for. He blessed his own mind to have written under a pseudonym.

‘Of course,’ Florence replied lightly. ‘Who hasn’t?’

‘Oh, only, I would not have thought this kind of style would be to your liking.’

‘Not especially,’ Florence pondered, unaware of her husband’s growing discomfort. ‘You know I prefer novels but I am convinced there is a woman behind it all and I support that.’

‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’ Miss Coke asked.

‘Well, that would explain the pseudonym, for one – you know how women authors are so oft discredited and have to resort to taking up a man’s name to publish under. And the object of their desire may remain nameless but I thought I gathered some signs that it is a man, by the way he is mentioned to smoke and ride and— Ah! The slow waltz! Excuse us. I believe I was promised a dance!’

And with that, she and Drummond left to join the next dancers, soon to be followed by Harriet and Ernst, which left Alfred no choice but to offer his arm to Wilhelmina.

Oh, how Drummond missed this! He did love dancing, or at least used to. And he was glad to be doing it again at Buckingham Palace, for he was reminded vividly of another ball here. That evening was memorable not for the hilarity of the medieval costumes everyone was wearing but because that was the first night he and Alfred decidedly and unequivocally… flirted.

At the time he wondered whether it was all only in his imagination. Now, in retrospect, knowing for sure that Alfred had feelings for him too, he wondered how much more obvious they could have been! And that was why he chose his very pseudonym: he was sure Alfred would remember, too.

_Alfred_. Drummond saw him dance with Miss Coke across the ballroom. He feasted his eyes on him as much as he could for swinging and twirling about, his fine physique, the blondness of his hair… And the dance seemed much faster suddenly, the room too warm, his head dizzier than it should be considering the slow pace they held… He could not slow down, else other couples would bump into them… But oh, he was feeling it… he was getting fast out of breath… his gasps came… he could not seem to get enough air, and the more he panicked, the harder it was… he felt faint by the time Florence asked whether he was alright… and a second later, he staggered out of the formation, grabbing at his cravat, until his legs hit a table. People’s heads turned after he knocked someone’s glass off with a loud crash.

Florence was by his side immediately. ‘Edward, darling?’ she asked, helping him free his throat.

Drummond was mouthing something when Alfred appeared a second later. ‘Drummond?’

‘Air!’ Florence pleaded. ‘He needs air!’

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice. Whether it was the Queen getting shot at or Drummond about to faint, he was the man to act. He put Drummond’s arm around his own shoulder and together they supported him out of the crowded ballroom into the much breezier hallway.

They waited until he sat it out on a bench, Alfred kneeling before him, while Florence explained about his condition.

‘He never mentioned anything about it to me in writing,’ Alfred said, half-scolding Drummond but not unkindly. He did notice now that Drummond was slightly thinner than he remembered.

‘Sorry,’ Drummond said, finding his voice.

‘If you’d like, there’s a balcony nearby,’ Alfred suggested as if Drummond hadn’t known about it perfectly well.

Drummond understood immediately and nodded. The thought of going to their balcony with Alfred again was thrilling! However, Florence stood to accompany him at once.

‘Um, Florence, don’t you think you’d get a cold without your cloak?’ Drummond said. ‘Besides, I feel badly. It seems our experiment has proved a failure already. Don’t you want to fill your dance card with skilled dancers before only the clumsy ones are left?’

Florence laughed and caught herself. ‘Oh, I do apologise, Lord Alfred.’

‘No, it’s quite true. Many young men in that ballroom have even stepped on my foot while dancing with their partner, who was not I!’ he quipped. ‘I wish I were exaggerating but alas I am not!’

She laughed again. ‘But, Edward…’

‘Really, I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a short while,’ her husband reassured her. He really wanted to be with Alfred and Alfred only.

‘Do not worry, Drummond shall be in good hands with me,’ Alfred added, making use of his most winning tone and smile.

Thankfully, Florence eyed the direction of the ballroom with longing… and finally agreed to return to dance without Edward.

Alfred and Edward looked at each other once she was gone and they were left completely by themselves in the corridor. Alone again, at last…

‘Shall we?’ Alfred said and led the way to their balcony.

It wasn’t very cold, they supposed, one of those snowy December nights where one did not freeze to death outdoors yet as in January, or so the obligatory small talk said that broke the ice about as well as a wooden toothpick could the ice on the Thames. But it was easier to look at the gardens and the flickering oil lamps of the city rather than at each other just yet.

The lull in the conversation was straining because they knew what they ought to be talking about and it wasn’t the weather. Thus they were heated by the silent tension that burned just as hotly between them as ever. It had been so long that it was too much to even be so near so suddenly.

Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, Alfred turned to Drummond.

‘Have you recovered? From your turn during the Waltz.’

Drummond willed himself to look at Alfred too, no matter how difficult that made keeping himself in control. ‘I believe I have.’

‘Good,’ Alfred said, bringing up in Drummond another memory: how he embraced Alfred in relief when the royal couple was found. And how he blurted out a curt “Good” too in a failed attempt at dispersing the awkwardness and his need to kiss Alfred right then and there. He only had to wait until that night to fulfil that desire, though. ‘Do you mind if I stay here with you?’

‘You don’t have to ask that.’

‘But I do. I have not clapped eyes on you since the wedding. That wasn’t my choice, so I do have to ask, maybe you don’t want me here...’

‘I do,’ Drummond jumped in, unable to take his eyes off Alfred now that he was permitted. Oh, how the reality surpassed even his most splendid memories and fantasies! He was unreal! From his golden hair and sparkling blue eyes, his eyelashes that went on forever, and his shining silk garments and his glowing skin and…

Everything about Alfred filled him with marvel like nothing and no one else could.

Michelangelo’s David could wallow in shame next to Alfred as the moonlight bounced off his heavenly features. It suited him just as the setting sun had in Scotland and Drummond ached to reach out and hold him close again. Suddenly he felt out of breath again, though he wasn’t exerting himself.

‘Are you quite sure you are well?’ Alfred asked, having picked up on Drummond’s heavy breaths. The trouble was, when Alfred instinctively stepped closer to extend a ready hand for Drummond in case he collapsed, Drummond let out a gasp, which was misinterpreted even further, which compelled Alfred to step even closer and even put a hand on his chest. ‘Shall I call for a medic?’

‘No, no, really, I’m fine,’ Drummond stuttered finally. Gosh, Alfred was touching him and standing close enough that he could feel his cologne mixed with alcohol and the faint scent of cheroots he missed so much, and this brought back memories so viscerally.

Alfred seemed to have caught himself completely lost in the other’s eyes. Drummond swallowed and Alfred watched as his Adam’s apple moved, unhidden by collar or cravat, and this sent a plethora of such improper thoughts to his mind that he had to lower his hand and step back. Suddenly an ant on the balustrade seemed just as fascinating to Alfred as his shoes did to Drummond…

‘You wouldn’t happen to have your tinderbox on you, would you?’ Alfred asked to save face, holding up a cheroot. Drummond abandoned his strained study of the ground and couldn’t help but smile.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, taking it out and happy to have something to do with his hands. His heart seemed to skip a beat as their hands touched (unnecessarily) as he lit Alfred’s cigar and he was momentarily immobilized as he watched Alfred’s lips curl around it slowly. Their eyes met again as Alfred inhaled.

‘Thank you,’ Alfred said quietly, exhaling away from Drummond’s direction. ‘I’m not hurting you, am I? With the smoke, I mean. I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence on you…’

There was definitely a double-meaning in that and Drummond was hit by such a bout of misery despite the delightful company of the man he had so longed for.

‘Alfred… I wish I could…’

‘I know. We must not lose our heads. Even if it means withdrawing from each other’s lives for a while…’ Alfred recited as a pupil does a school rule. ‘So, has it worked?’

‘Worked?’

‘Have you successfully forgotten me?’ Alfred asked with some attempt at humour but beneath that there was real fear.

Drummond could see this and his heart was breaking to know that Alfred had suffered just as he had. He had enough. He stepped closer without thinking.

‘Alfred, the more I try not to think about you the more you occupy my thoughts,’ Drummond said as quietly as he could and there was a definite shift in the air between the men. ‘From the moment I wake up to the late hour I am finally able to sleep, and then even in my dreams I see _you_ , I need _you_ , I long for _you_.’

Alfred he shushed him and glanced fearfully at the balcony door but there was no one around but he was touched and elated, he could feel his heart beating fast in his throat.

‘I have to say it,’ Drummond pressed on. ‘Just once. If I can’t in our letters. I need you to know now.’

‘I do know,’ Alfred whispered, chancing to hold Drummond’s hand under the balustrade where no one could see. ‘Or rather, I have hoped so, so that I wouldn’t be alone feeling thus.’

‘I do not want to close my eyes at night because I cannot look at your picture that way, then I do not want to wake up because that means an end to the wondrous scenes of my uninhibited mind, where no one can find me, where I can visit your voice, your face, your lips, your embrace.’

‘Goodness, Edward…’ Alfred was shivering all over under Edward’s influence. ‘Careful, I might gossip that you are the mystery poet everyone’s talking about.’

Drummond’s eyes widened as an odd look flashed across his face. He opened his mouth but said nothing in the end. He was certainly not laughing at the suggestion, which led Alfred to think…

Oh.

It would all make sense.

But… no, it can’t be…

‘…Edward?’ Drummond bit his lips now in a decidedly guilty way and Alfred stepped back. ‘Edward?!’

‘I thought you would’ve guessed by now.’

‘By God, are you having me on? Drummond…???’

Edward shushed him quickly, throwing a worried glance at the door as well. ‘…I had to express how I felt, didn’t I? Otherwise I would have burst! Since I am not allowed to do so in another channel, I have refused my name and grabbed a pen. If I can’t tell anyone, I chose to tell everyone, in the hopes that my message would find you, the only one who would understand the real meaning.’

Alfred quickly re-evaluated all the poems with the mind-set that Drummond had written them. The real and the imagined pictures, the memories _and_ the fantasies that had yet to come true. The times he took a poem or two to bed with himself, to stuff them under his pillow and resign himself to staring at the roof of his lavish four-poster bed when instead of sleep only tears would come for he was wishing back his days with Edward from before. How he would have given up all his expensive possessions and all chances of rest for the remainder of his life if he could be back there just once again falling behind the others during a walk! How he cursed himself for all the times he decided against pushing into Edward’s room when they were traveling! He wished even to travel back in time to their arguments, to the crushing moment Edward told him he was engaged!

All evoked by words that were written by the object of his desire after all – or indeed, Alfred must have been the object of _his_ desire all this time!

‘You mean to say… all those pieces… are for…’

‘For you? Yes. For you, about you, about us,’ Drummond confirmed. Alfred was looking curiously at him and Drummond wondered whether that was a good or a bad sign. ‘You’re not mad at me, are you?’

‘Mad?’ Alfred uttered.

And the next second, risk be damned, he kissed Drummond on the lips with all his heart. Drummond breathed him in and felt alive for the first time in months.

‘I’m so sorry, Alfred,’ Drummond said after they parted. ‘For everything, for what I’ve put you through. I was wrong, I was a fool! I’m so sorry. About the engagement, the attack, the wedding, for keeping my distance, for not telling you sooner—’

‘You are a beautiful, beautiful man, did you know that?’ Alfred said, completely mesmerised and enthralled by Drummond. ‘In fact I believe I have fallen in love with you all over again tonight.’

Drummond blushed. ‘I’m a cripple who can’t endure a Waltz.’

‘Nonsense, you are a hero.’

‘…who is married. I can only bring unhappiness to you.’

Alfred was shaking his head. ‘Then why do I feel so happy?’

Why indeed, why did they feel the happiest when everything was against them?

‘Do you think we might talk again?’ Drummond asked. ‘Properly.’

‘Only talk?’

‘And see each other. Just as we used to. Maybe… more.’

‘I’d like that. Very much.’

Drummond mirrored Alfred’s smile, drinking him in while he could. He knew he would either have to leave or he would have to embrace him again without any control over himself.

‘Perhaps, we should return to the ball room…’ he forced himself to say.

‘We should. Your wife will be worried…’ Alfred said with a sigh, to which Drummond offered an apologetic look and they left the balcony with heavy hearts. Then, terribly amused by the knowledge, he added: ‘Do not worry, I shall keep your secret, of course. You don’t want them to find you, come the obscenity trials!’

‘Ah… do you think it was too much? I was writing from the heart…’ Edward muttered his excuse shyly but not at all regretfully.

‘The heart… and other parts,’ Alfred suggested knowingly, and by the time they reached the ballroom, Edward had returned to his lively complexion – more than that, he was beet red.

Everyone in society was nonplussed about The Pale Loiterer’s abrupt disappearance. Rumours spread within days about a supposed threat of a lawsuit, evolving into an adventurous story about a married woman that was seduced by him, and eventually a murder story from the muse’s husband…

Not to say that Drummond stopped writing. Only, instead of posting them to magazines, he sent them directly to the one recipient he intended there to be. The more chaste ones were attached to letters, while the less appropriate ones Alfred tended to find stolen into his coat pocket upon returning to his room after seeing Drummond in person. This way, Drummond could let Alfred know between the lines what he really thought, what he felt, what he wanted to do with Alfred, were they not surrounded by dozens of chaperones…

And true to their word, they revived their usual acquaintanceship.

First, they attempted to finish their interrupted dinner at Ciro’s. However, it turned out to be another disaster of another kind: they had to leave after just a couple of oysters tasted for becoming much too frustrated with the fact that they had to keep away from discussing just the topics they wanted for fear of being overheard. The carriage ride spent snogging ravenously behind curtained windows was the real highlight of the evening.

Then, there were walks (slowly) in the park. And in galleries. And Alfred convincing the Queen to extend an invitation or two to Drummond (and by necessity his wife) when a play or a concert was put on at the Palace, where they could catch some private moments to talk at least. Even if they couldn’t have a real encounter at these occasions, it was excellent to have each other’s presence as a constant once again.

But Alfred only truly blessed his luck that he was still in his riding clothes when he received the following unsigned note from Drummond one evening:

“ _Alone and palely loitering / Alone and lonely waiting / Alone and doing nothing / But were I not alone…_ If you would like to hear the end of this, do come to my house and I shall show you in person.”

He was back on horseback faster than ever.

Drummond himself opened the front door and led Alfred straight into the back, into his cosy study.

‘You are unbelievable,’ Alfred said, following suit and waving the note in his hand. ‘If this got into the wrong hands…’

‘But it is in the right ones,’ Drummond interrupted, placing a gentle kiss on Alfred’s hand, who was swept off his feet immediately, and they were kissing in a long embrace.

‘Are you sure we are quite alone?’ Alfred asked with difficulty controlling himself.

‘We are. Florence is spending the night at her cousin’s and I’ve sent all the servants away to the fair in Camden Town. They shall not bother us until daybreak if we keep to my dressing room.’

Alfred nuzzled his nose against Drummond’s but he had clearly lost some of his fervour.

‘What is it, Alfred?’ he asked. ‘Have I done it all wrong?’

‘No! No, you are perfect… It’s nothing, only… Well, I suppose this is how it will be always. Me on the lookout for your wife to be out of the house for a few hours… always on edge, always ready to put my own day on hold…’

‘I haven’t called you here as one does a… a…’ Drummond had a hard time even saying such an incomparable thing in reference to Alfred, ‘…a rentboy. I would have understood if you could not come, you are Her Majesty’s Chief Equerry, I know you are in such high demand.’

‘Oh, I have come willingly, make no mistake,’ Alfred reassured him in an unmistakable, deep and suggestive voice that sent a wave of heat through Drummond’s body.

‘And I am glad beyond expression. But I don’t want you to think I’ve my mind only on… I miss you. I miss talking to you, I miss your remarks, your presence, your entire self! A day when I can meet you is a delight, whereas a day on which I cannot is wasted. I love you, I love all of you. Besides, who else would make me laugh behind my palm during an awful performance such as Mr Beattie’s was in Scotland?’

Alfred smirked mischievously but he was still concerned. ‘I miss you too, even when I can see you. Even now! Seems silly but I do… Edward, I come running, _galloping_ as I have just now, whenever you call, you can be sure of that. But you can’t deny that our minutes depend on where _she_ is, never mind both our servants and superiors alike. Not to ill-speak of her because I can see she is a good person and I will not blame her. And, well, I suppose a baby must be on the way soon…’

‘Alfred… it’s not like you to be so melancholic.’

‘I’m not, I’m just…’

‘If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were jealous.’

‘She’s your wife, she gets to spend every day with you, claim the right to be with you, of course I’m jealous.’

‘Then, you’ll be pleased to know that no baby is on the way, if you must know.’

‘What?’ Alfred asked, then recognition dawned on him. ‘Oh. Why? How come?’

‘How come? I think you of all people should understand,’ Drummond replied obviously, as any husband would who was holding the man he loved in his arms, which did not go over Alfred’s head either. ‘Besides, I have been quite incapable of doing anything while recovering and she’s actually confessed to me her apprehension about bearing a child. And I must say, after Princess Charlotte and having seen Her Majesty give birth, I’m afraid I support her cautiousness.’

‘Oh, please,’ Alfred pulled away, unaccustomed to all that talk about women’s ordeals. ‘But then… You’ve never… done anything… with anyone?’

‘Why the tone of surprise? Of course I have not.’

Alfred decided it was not the moment to confess to some brief encounters in his own past. ‘But… How do you know so much about passion when you’ve never practiced it? Clearly, your poems show such… maturity.’

‘I suppose I’ve read and learned a lot from the masters. Shakespeare, Donne, Shelly, and do not tell Her Majesty but a good amount from Byron…’

‘Oh, indeed?’ Alfred said, stepping back into Drummond’s arms, close, closer than close, the warmth of his lips grazing Drummond’s. ‘Well, would you like a new teacher?’

Drummond woke late with a smile still etched upon his face, came morning. Alfred had snuck out before sunrise, but left his scent behind on the pillows, which was a small but heavenly comfort.

He was glad that he had Alfred filling his days. He cared for little else next to the fact that he was utterly and wholeheartedly smitten. Florence noticed his improved mood as well, and since she was even glad that Alfred compelled him to get out and about more, she encouraged their outings, saying she was glad she would have the library all for herself in the meantime.

What she did not know, Drummond thought guiltily sometimes, was that half the time their activities were a lie. Within the next couple of months, Alfred’s bedroom won various cover names: the gallery, the club, the embassy. This made Drummond happier than he could say but on the days when he did not get the chance to see Alfred, or even had any excuse to leave the house, he was really feeling a sense of purposelessness, especially compared to his hectic previous career.

When they really had a literary society dinner to attend, Drummond was delighted, therefore, that one of the most prominent London magazines’ chief editors was selling. Why, was Mr Drummond interested in buying? Yes, as a matter of fact, he was keenly interested indeed. A lunch to discuss details was agreed upon on the spot, and before long, contracts were signed, and Drummond owned and presided over one of his and Alfred’s favourite periodicals.

He took up the mantle superbly, as everyone said so. The offices were also in a fashionable district of London, in a townhouse in the attic of which he could even maintain his private quarters for late nights, which made his and Alfred’s encounters after deadlines much safer as well. There were no servants lurking in every doorway here and they were quite separated from the office floors where the journalists worked, with multiple locked doors between them.

Florence did not feel neglected. She said so, when Drummond asked, repeatedly. She supported his newfound career because it clearly had an excellent effect on her husband, and the perk of being in contact with a great assortment of influential and interesting people was also not to be dismissed. Florence enjoyed the acquaintance of politicians and writers alike, and that odd man who lifted weights for a living. What an odd profession!

They seemed to have the most ideal friendship, spending hours in their library at a time and she wanted nothing else but to read and analyse books. She was even getting quite into political publications – this, Drummond first cautioned her against since he assumed it a bit too tasking for her to study but she got so angry at that that he agreed to tutor her about all she wanted to know without any further objections.

It was a few months into his editorial career that Drummond came upon a curious letter from a reader. They were asking after The Pale Loiterer, and did Drummond know anything about him?

That, he did…

‘Ah, an admirer!’ Alfred laughed as they were leisurely opening letters in bed one morning. Her Majesty was with her ladies in waiting at some flower show and Alfred feigned a sore throat to see Edward instead. ‘I must say I sympathise.’

‘You’re not suggesting I write again?’

‘How could it hurt?’

‘Everyone would be nagging me for the identity of the poet that doesn’t exist.’

‘He does exist,’ Alfred countered Drummond, placing a soft kiss on his bare knee. ‘It’s you. And think about how it would boost sales as well. You would be the sole editor in contact with the mystery man who has made many a reader blush over their breakfasts.’

Alfred had a way to convince Drummond. Well, he had many ways, and this time was no different. Soon, he published a snippet of a poem and sure enough he would soon be bombarded with questions and offers of bribery to give away the poet’s identity.

‘I told you this was a bad idea,’ Drummond said to Alfred as they escaped his own demanding journalists. On the pretext of important government business, they slipped upstairs and into his office, locking the door at once, lest a nosier columnist further insisted that Mr Drummond tell them how he found the poet.

‘On the contrary,’ Alfred laughed, finally allowed to embrace Edward and kiss him in a way he had been so longing to since they had got into the carriage after lunch. ‘It’s brilliant.’

Drummond forgot to complain more about his own secret popularity as their kisses grew deeper.

And then he felt ice in his lungs as he heard a soft clearing of the throat coming from the tall-backed armchair that faced away from them.

Florence appeared from behind the back of the armchair, her petite figure having been hidden easily, making the lovebirds jump apart in an instant.

‘Sorry, your cartoonist said I could wait in here,’ she offered lamely.

‘Florence…’

‘Hello,’ she said, standing a bit timidly. ‘Good to see you, Lord Alfred, I trust Miss Coke is well?’

As the silence showed, this was not the kind of moment that one could ease by small talk.

‘Florence, I can explain—’ Drummond began.

‘Oh, no, Edward...’

‘I am so sorry for having—’

‘No need to…‘

‘I didn’t mean to betray your—’

‘EDWARD!’ Florence raised her usually gentle voice. ‘It’s alright. Really.’

‘“Alright?”’ Drummond asked, not sure he heard it right.

‘Alright, yes, it is alright. I’ve known about it since before we were married. It’s fine.’

Drummond froze in shock. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he heard himself ask.

‘Miss Coke thought she was being kind to me when she told me about something. On the royal trip to Scotland the summer before our wedding, she saw you and Lord Alfred… well, she wasn’t sure what she saw but from her description she must have seen you embrace or kiss or something close to that.’

‘Did she?’ Alfred asked, hearing this for the first time.

‘Do not worry, Lord Alfred, I reassured her that whatever she saw was nothing to trouble her.’

‘But… it wasn’t nothing,’ Drummond said and Florence turned back to him.

‘I assumed as much.’

‘But… you pressed on so that the wedding could go on as planned. Even though I was injured, even though you knew about Alfred?’ and Drummond added, sorry he had kept this from Alfred, ‘Even though I asked you whether you would like to call it off when it became apparent how impaired I was from the attack?’

‘I did. I am sorry if I have caused you some difficulty about that. I wish I could have invited you into my plan but of course I could not be certain about you and I would never have dared to ask. Please, Edward, Lord Alfred, forgive me for that.’

‘I think I should be asking for your forgiveness, Lady F- I mean, Mrs Drummond,’ Lord Alfred said timidly.

‘Do call me Florence, please, we are good friends. Or, I should like to be.’

‘Florence,’ Drummond interrupted. ‘Why? Why did you want to get married if you knew?’

‘Oh, Edward… Because I knew you would allow me the freedom that I craved all my life. You know my parents. You have felt their controlling nature on your own skin. It’s true, the match was not my idea in the first place but the more I knew you the more I liked you and the more I fancied it. Yes, you are everything a woman would want, but I was hoping for something else in you, perhaps selfishly. I wanted to marry you because… well, because I knew you would never make me do anything I didn’t want, I knew you would never be cruel to me or repress me or force me to do anything or reduce me to whatever has become of all my childhood friends. They went from always being someone’s daughter to being someone’s wife and then mother. They were never just themselves. I knew you would let me be me. So I let you be you.’

‘So… did you never… want me as a real husband? Did you never want a real husband?’

‘Perhaps… sometimes… I’m not really sure, I’m so young, it’s unfair to expect me to know that. But what was sure was that I wanted to be free from others’ control more than I wanted a husband. And I do love you, Edward, you are a good man and the dearest friend I have ever had. You are the only man I know who hasn’t treated me like a trained dog!’ she explained with some embarrassment for speaking ill of others. But this was a moment of truth and she was going to tell her truth.

‘If you want me to leave…’ Lord Alfred interjected awkwardly.

Florence and Edward said “No” at the same time, doing nothing to ease Alfred’s embarrassment. He did the next best thing and retreated towards a bookshelf that matched his clothes’ colours.

‘Florence,’ Drummond continued. ‘Is this why you are rather reluctant about children? Or was that also just something you said?’

‘I believe our arrangement has suited you well,’ she replied, reconsidering asking Lord Alfred to give them a minute of privacy after all. ‘And though it is part of it perhaps, I really am simply terrified of the process. I’m sorry, Edward, I just have not felt the absolute need to become a mother, certainly not as early as this. I have so much to learn yet, I have so many things I would like to do before that. It’s so risky!’ She caught herself before another stubborn rant that she could allow herself with Edward, realising she never actually asked his opinion, only assumed. ‘Of course, that is, if you wanted… I… I mean…’

‘Would anyone like a drink?’ Alfred spoke up, rushing to the liquor cabinet and pouring everyone a large glass of whisky. They drank in silence.

‘Edward, I…’

‘I will not insist on anything…’

‘I’m sure you would be the best of fathers but…’

‘I’m your husband, I owe you to follow your wish…’

‘But I don’t insist…’

‘But Florence,’ Drummond spoke more strongly, putting an end to their fruitless conversation before Alfred poured himself a third glass to endure having to listen to this. ‘Don’t you want to be in love? Truly, madly, in love? And for that love to be returned?’

Florence had to smile. ‘I think you read too many of my novels. Women do not marry for love. They barter themselves away. What have I been telling you all this time? I have no mind for love when I feel as if I have no right to do anything! However, I have found freedom with you, Edward. And I have love for you for that. In return, I would like you to know that I support your, err… courtship. As long as you are safe, and I shall do my best to aid you in that. So, if you agree, I should like to stay married to you, Edward.’

‘But of course… what else could we do?’

‘Theoretically, we could still annul it on grounds of non-consummation, but I’d like to avoid that scandal…’

‘I quite agree,’ Drummond said, finishing his drink in one go to cool his head. ‘So, what now?’

‘Well, nothing really. Nothing has to change… We still must pretend for the sake of my parents at our monthly dinners, unfortunately – oh, such a headache… Although I think we could start sleeping in separate rooms as of now. Your snores are just horrid.’

‘I do not snore.’

‘You do a little…’ Alfred muttered in the corner, sharing a mischievous look with Florence, and rather than getting cross or feigning shock, she giggled behind her glass.

Drummond was completely indignant.

‘But I think it’s foolish to carry on with awkward formalities, now that we have cleared the air at last,’ Florence said with some finality, to general agreement. ‘Besides, my visit does in fact have a purpose, and I did promise tea with Madeleine at three.’

‘Oh, right – why have you come here today?’ Drummond asked, taking a seat in the visitor’s chair, since Florence rather confidently sat back in his own armchair.

‘On account of two matters. Firstly, I would like you to publish an article by Mrs Elizabeth Jesser Reid on the importance of advances in women’s education,’ she began, presenting Edward with a file.

‘I shall do my best,’ he said, scanning the draft. ‘And what was the other thing?’

‘Well, I _was_ going to wheedle out of you how on Earth you have come to be in contact with The Pale Loiterer – all my friends are nagging me about it constantly! However,’ she continued, indicating a pile of papers on Drummond’s desk that bore his unfinished poems, ‘I believe these speak for themselves.’

After all the skeletons unearthed that day, everything seemed to improve significantly. Edward and Alfred no longer had to hide from Florence, which was an immense relief. Edward’s health was also on the way up, and he even started rowing and riding again, overseen by Alfred who was frequently told not to fret by an out-of-breath Drummond… at first. Eventually, Drummond built his strength back – even taking a few tips from that eccentric “weight-lifter” he once interviewed for an article, to get himself back to his usual state of fitness.

They both supported Florence wholeheartedly when she decided to be one of the first women to enrol into higher education at Bedford College when it opened in 1849. As Drummond’s paper’s popularity grew, they bought a house in Bloomsbury for her convenience, as well as with the idea in mind that it would be safer for Alfred to get out of the usual tight knit triangle of the Palace, Whitehall, and his own address in Grosvenor Place, where he often felt rather under surveillance wherever he went or rode.

As to what the future would bring, no one could find an answer. Maybe Florence would change her mind and want children after all and they would have to manage that as respectfully and dignifiedly as they could, or she would go on to become a professor at Bedford, or perhaps she would announce having fallen in love with someone so that she and Edward would divorce with hopefully minimal scandal and scorn – after all, if there were no children indeed, most people would understand their failure and the hope for another chance at building a family. That’s the explanation that would be given and that would suffice. Let them think what they want. She felt stronger now, strong enough to ignore all such opinions that used to burden her, because she had choices now.

And what was certain was that Drummond did indeed find safety, peace, and above all, more love than he knew what to do with because he and Alfred found a way to be together. It wasn’t easy every day. But if anyone had asked them, they would have said they were happy.

In fact, Alfred thought Drummond just as mad as his shooter, when he told him that he visited Bedlam one day, the institution where the assassin M’Naghten was housed.

Why? To thank him. Thank him? Alfred was incredulous but Edward explained readily. No, it wasn’t that he helped Drummond leave his impact on history by creating an important legal precedence by taking that bullet and watching as his attacker escaped the noose on grounds of insanity. It was something else: he had imagined his life as it would be had he not been shot on that fateful day. He would probably still have been a Private Secretary, always hiding, always serving, which he had liked to do at the time but he was much more independent now as the publisher of his own paper. He would probably not have had a fraction of the freedom to be with Alfred had his life not got turned upside down like that.

He really did feel as if he had been loitering all his life, only to have found his home at last, in Alfred’s arms. As for his writing, Drummond still occasionally surprised Alfred with a verse or two when his muse inspired him, knowing they no longer had to seek fulfilment between the lines. Instead of gaining experiences in imagination only, they were living them. Just living.


End file.
